


The Wishbox

by mizBean



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Character Study, Community: ownficfest, Hogwarts-era, Missing Scene, Multi, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-03 00:16:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mizBean/pseuds/mizBean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you could have anything in the world, what would you wish for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wishbox

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Catsintheattic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catsintheattic/gifts).



**Author's Notes:** My ownficfest submission. Written for catsintheattic. Thank you to kennahijja for giving me the opportunity to write this story.

I also have to thank my son who gave me the original idea for this story. One day after school he was telling me about a book he had heard at school about a boy who could have anything he wished for. It immediately started the wheels turning, and I wondered what would happen if someone like Draco, a boy who has almost everything, would be given the chance to wish for anything in the world. Of course, he would wish for more toys, but we know his story takes a darker turn as he grows older. What would he wish for then?

****

The Wishbox

_Madame Malfoy,_

_It has come to my regrettable attention that a list of instructions was omitted when we packaged your wishbox for sale. It is imperative that you study each and every one of them carefully as your wishbox may not otherwise operate to its fullest potential._

_As always, your wish is our command,  
Monsieur Petit_

~ * ~

"What is it?"

"Can't see."

"Stop pushing."

"You stop."

"No, you stop."

"Mum, Crabbe kicked me."

"Did not."

"Did too. _Mum_."

Pansy Parkinson's wail was lost in the din of shouting children crowding around Draco Malfoy. Today was his fifth birthday, and the South Lawn of the Manor was festooned with balloons and fairy lights. Later there would be pony rides and acrobats to marvel over, and, of course, a large chocolate cake to devour, but for now all eyes were on the small blond boy as he sat cross-legged on the grass, dwarfed beneath a teetering pile of birthday presents.

As Draco tore open the colorfully-wrapped boxes (immediately discarding their contents onto the lawn behind him without so much as a backward glance), the children pressed closer, some pushing and shoving their way to the front, for it was a well-known fact that Draco always got the best presents, the fastest and shiniest toys, and when he grew bored he sometimes shared. But no present garnered more interest from the gathered children (and their respective parents) than the one Draco currently held in his hands.

The box, wrapped in his favorite color of Slytherin green, was small, much too small to contain a Junior Nimbus 500, the toy racing broom Draco so desperately coveted, and for that reason he wore distinctly perturbed expression.

"I heard it only arrived this morning," Mrs. Parkinson whispered to Mrs. Nott, from where they both stood a few steps beyond the scrum of shouting children.

"Express owled from Paris. Can you imagine?" Mrs. Nott tutted in return, even as she craned her neck so she could see.

"Cissy spoils that child rotten," another parent chimed in, and there was a chorus of agreement.

And then, on cue, an impeccably dressed, flaxen-haired woman stepped forward. Head held high, Narcissa Malfoy was already the object of both admiration and jealousy among the other mothers in Wizarding society. Not only did she have a beautiful home and an even more beautiful husband, she had the most darling son (even if he was all kinds of a brat), but even more to the point: she was richer than God. Surely, any gift she had hand-selected to give her son would soon become the most coveted toy in England. Perhaps there would still be time to get an order in before the Christmas rush!

A hush fell as Narcissa beamed down at her son. "Go on, dear. Open it."

It didn't appear that Draco needed to be told twice. He tore open the wrappings, and once again he was lost amidst the surging crowd of chattering children.

"Well, what is it?" someone finally yelled, the crowd of onlookers growing impatient.

There was no response, only the soft titter of a child's laughter, and then…

"It's just--" a child's voice was heard as the laughter grew louder, "an ugly old box."

 

_[ ONE SHOULD NEVER TAKE THEIR WISHBOX FOR GRANTED. ]_

 

"What is it?" a little girl demanded breathlessly into Draco's ear. She was crouched down next to him, watching, as he lifted a square wooden box out from its green foil wrapping.

His frown deepened. He had no idea. It _looked_ like it might be a music box, albeit one that looked like it had spent the last century cared for by trolls. Scorch marks marred the outside and part of a corner was nicked off, and it smelled unpleasantly of mildew and damp. But when Draco opened the hinged top, no music played, nor was there anything hidden inside. He poked at the velvet lining a few times just to make sure, and when he closed the lid again, tears of disappointment were prickling his eyes. The runes carved into the top of the box would offer Draco no clues to its purpose either. At age five Draco had only just started to learn his letters. He wouldn't learn to read runes until he was much older.

By now Draco was certain that he was the butt of a very cruel joke. The growing laughter -- from guests invited to _his_ birthday party! -- only proved it.

Eyes stinging and feeling very betrayed, Draco glared at the other children. "Shut up," he snapped as the tears began rolling down his cheeks. "You too, Zabini. Who cares what you think?" he snarled, focusing his ire on the haughty-looking boy laughing the loudest. Blaise Zabini didn't even have a father. Draco thought he had a lot of nerve!

"_You_ shut up," Zabini retorted.

Infuriated, Draco picked up the box with every intention of throwing it at Zabini's head when his mother grabbed him by the arm.

"Draco," she warned, and at the sound of her voice all the fight and energy drained out of him. Draco adored his mother, and at this moment all he wanted was to curl up into her arms. His birthday party was ruined. He doubted even a full-blown tantrum could save it.

"There, there, darling. It's all right," she said, brushing the tears from of his eyes. She was sitting on a pillow she had summoned from inside the Manor, her elegant robes fanned out around her legs.

Draco sniffled, burying his head in her lap. However, it wasn't long before his attention drifted back to the box left forgotten on the grass. Draco lifted his head and found his mother smiling down at him. It was a sly sort of smile that spoke of magic and secrets, and Draco felt a tingle of excitement curl around inside him.

"Do you know what this is?" his mother asked, picking the box up again and touching the top almost reverentially with her fingertips.

"No," he admitted, barely able to contain himself. Nor, it seemed, could the other boys and girls clustered around them, for all of them leaned forward at once, not wanting to miss a single word.

"Well, it is very rare," Narcissa said, smirking, in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Really?" Draco said, beaming. Rare was good. Rare meant no one else had one.

"Really," Narcissa confirmed. "This rare artifact is…" she paused just long enough for the children listening in to move closer, "a wishbox."

Someone let out an audible gasp, and then everyone began talking at once.

Draco grinned.

He didn't know what a wishbox was, but he thought he had a good idea.

His mother smiled. "If you could have anything in the world, Draco. What would you wish for?"

"Anything in the world?" Draco repeated.

Well, there were great many things a young boy like Draco might like to wish for, but there was only one thing he really wanted. "A Junior Nimbus 500 racing room," he blurted out to the appreciative murmur of the other children.

And he watched, fidgeting with excitement, as his mother wrote out the words _Junior Nimbus 500_ in careful, neat letters on a square of parchment. She folded it once and placed it inside the box. "Ready?" she asked, that sly smile returning.

Draco nodded.

With her hand on top of the box, Narcissa closed her eyes and began to recite:

_"I have a wish I wish to make.  
A wish I wish will come true.   
With all my heart and all my soul   
I wish that you will grant me my wish   
and make my dreams come true."_

Draco watched as the runes carved into box began to glow, and with it came a heady twist of magic. It swirled around him, and Draco found the sensation both exciting and unnerving. Much how he imagined flying would be like. Oh, how he wished he had a broom…

"Ow!" Draco cried out as something hard smacked him across the forehead.

It was a toy broom. It lay on the grass at Draco's feet, its polished wooden handle gleaming in the sunlight and not a straw out of place. It was a thing of beauty. A perfect replica of the broom Fergus Stump rode when he lead his team to victory in the last Champions Cup, only sized down to fit one small boy.

The Junior Nimbus 500 was everything Draco could ever wish for. And he didn't have to share.

 

_[ YOU CAN'T NEVER WISH FOR TOO MANY TOYS. ]_

 

Two hours later, sated and faces smeared with chocolate, children were once again surrounding Draco. Only this time the adults had gone elsewhere, gossiping and drinking their tea at tidy white tables set across the lawn. The Junior Nimbus 500 lay where he left it an hour ago, for there were other toys to play with, new ones "wished" from his wishbox: a model train magicked to run under its own power, Demons of the Dark Arts action figures, exploding wands. But they too lay scattered across the lawn, the children's eyes trained instead on the motley-looking box sitting in Draco's lap.

Draco wondered what else he should wish for.

"A model dragon," a child shouted.

"Screaming yo-yo," said another.

"Chocolate Frogs." That was Goyle.

"A Baby Betsy doll," someone else yelled, a girl dressed head to toe in pink. Draco scowled. As if he would wish for a doll.

"Blood lollies."

"Dungbombs."

"Ice mice."

"Chocolate Frogs."

"You said that already."

"So."

The shouting went on. Zabini rolled his eyes and claimed he was bored, and Draco vowed to never again invite Zabini to one of his parties. And then Draco smiled, inspiration striking. He knew exactly what he wanted to wish for.

"How do you spell 'go'?" asked Draco, turning to Zabini, a square of parchment and quill in hand.

Zabini frowned. "Go? G-O. Why?"

"No reason." Draco scrawled the word down on the piece of parchment and slipped it inside the box. He shut his eyes and began reciting the spell.

A light breezed whispered across the grass, and when Draco re-opened his eyes he saw he was alone, the children gone.

He grinned. Now he had all the toys to himself.

 

_[ YOU CAN NEVER WISH FOR TOO MANY FRIENDS. ]_

 

Draco footsteps echoed as he raced across the marble floor, his Junior Nimbus 500 dragging behind him. Of course, he wasn't _supposed_ to run in the house, and indeed as he turned the corner into the music room, chock full of elegant and priceless treasures, he collided with a small table, sending a vase teetering over its edge. It crashed to the floor, shards of porcelain scattering in every direction. Draco paid it no heed, already running on to the next room, and besides, a house-elf appeared almost instantly to clean the mess up.

There was also mud on the floor, tracked in through the front door. It was still summer, the air heavy from an early morning rain shower, and Draco had spent the last hour alone, leaping over puddles in the garden on his toy broom. He had quickly grown tired of that and was now searching for something better to do.

His father was in the library, the door closed; in other words: DO NOT DISTURB (especially energetic little boys with muddy shoes), and when he finally came upon his mother in the salon she was busy conferring with her head elf, Mimsy. But her face lit up when he ran to her side, and Draco knew that at last he had found someone to play with.

However, his hopes were soon dashed. After a quick peck on the forehead and a _scourgify_ from Mimsy for his muddy shoes, Narcissa shooed him on his way.

Draco stuck out his lower lip.

"Oh, darling. What now?" Narcissa's face wore a fine imitation of his petulant expression.

"Bored," Draco replied, his feet rooted to the spot and his arms crossed in front of his chest.

"Bored?" Narcissa laughed indulgently. She knelt down in front of him, the gold bracelets on her wrist jangling as she reached to brush the fringe out of his eyes. "You must have _something_ to play with."

Draco shrugged.

"Well, I just know just the thing," said his mother, touching the tip of his nose.

"Really?" Draco's heart leapt. Of course she did. His mother made everything better.

"I do." She rose to her feet and paused to smooth the wrinkles out of her robes. "Dobby," she said with certainty. "I'm sure Dobby would love to play with you."

 

_[ WISHES MAY COME IN ALL SHAPES AND SIZES. ]_

 

Draco _hated_ Dobby.

"I hate you," said Draco to the miserable-looking house-elf that had appeared in his bedroom doorway, and he took no consolation when Dobby picked up a lamp off a nearby table and began using it to hit himself on the head.

Well, Draco found some consolation, for Dobby was now crying, fat tears running down his ugly face. Draco found a stack of wooden blocks on the floor and tormented him further, throwing them one by one at his head as he cowered on the floor. One bounced off the top of Dobby's eyelid, leaving a gash.

A trickle of blood ran down the side of Dobby's face, and Draco wasn't about to feel sorry. He hated Dobby.

But the spectacle of watching a blubbering house-elf bleed all over his carpeted floor could only cheer Draco for so long. He wanted someone to play with. Someone fun.

It had started to rain again, the dim light outside his windows coloring his bedroom a gloomy shade of gray. Draco slumped down on top his bed, hugging his pillow to his chest. He began to cry, and it was through tear-stained eyes that he saw the wishbox sitting on his bedside table.

He wondered if he could wish for something more than just a toy broom or chocolate frogs.

"Dobby," he barked, sitting up.

He had an idea, but he wasn't sure if it was going to work. He opened one of his drawers and pulled out a piece of parchment and a self-inking quill.

Dobby lifted his tear-stained face out of his hands. "Yes, Master Draco?"

"How do you spell 'friend'?"

Moments later a little girl stepped out of Draco's fireplace. She was dressed in frills and had pink ribbons in her hair. Her face wore a petulant expression very much like Draco's.

Draco reacted to her appearance like any little boy would, springing off his bed in shock. He was expecting someone like Crabbe or Goyle. He might have even tolerated Zabini.

But what he wasn't expecting was a _girl_. "Wait!" he cried as he watched in horror as the little girl walked over to his toy chest and pulled out a stuffed bear. She turned it upside down and made a face, the toy bear expressing its displeasure with an irritated growl.

"Who are you?" he demanded, balling his fists.

The little girl turned and gave him look like he had just grown a set of tentacles. "I'm Pansy Parkinson, stupid." She tossed the bear behind her. It landed headfirst on the floor with an _oof_.

There was something about her ill-tempered demeanor that sparked a memory. "You were at my birthday party, " he said.

"Duh." She rolled her eyes and plopped down on top his bed. Really, the nerve.

"_Duh_. I don't talk to girls," snapped Draco, pushing her back off.

She landed on floor in a puddle of pink, and with one evil-looking grin she kicked him hard in the shin.

"Ow!" Draco jumped on one foot, rubbing his leg. "That hurt!" he roared.

Pansy glared at him from the floor, her arms crossed in front of her chest. "Maybe you should talk to girls."

She seemed awfully bossy, and he wondered if he should make Dobby get rid of her, but Dobby seemed to have taken the girl's sudden arrival as an excuse to disappear.

Draco narrowed his eyes, still hopping on one leg. "Why did you come here?"

Pansy shrugged. "Dunno. I just felt like it, I guess." She narrowed her eyes back at him. "Why?"

"Nothing," he said, looking at his wishbox. He wondered if it might be broken, and then he shrugged. It wasn't like he had anything _better_ to do. "You want to play a game?"

She grinned at him. "Sure."

 

_[ USE YOUR WISHBOX EARLY AND OFTEN. ]_

 

Pansy and Draco became fast friends. Still, he kept a healthy distance should some of the frippery and pink rub off. They spend the summer racing around the gardens, Draco on his toy broom and Pansy chasing behind. But by the time autumn came and went, the toy Nimbus 500 was left abandoned next to the reflecting pool, exposed to the elements until a house-elf appeared one afternoon and carried it away.

But there were so many other toys to play with. Soon there were so many crowding Draco's bedroom that he could barely walk a path across the floor until one day, bored and annoyed with the mess, Draco wished them all away. They disappeared in an instant, and Draco smiled to himself, satisfied until the lull of boredom overcame him once again, and he picked the wishbox and wished for something else.

The wishbox quickly became Draco's favorite thing ever. He even slept with it, placing it on a pillow next to his head, and he would lie awake, imagining what other magical things he could wish for: perhaps a tray of sticky pudding for breakfast or a never-ending jar of strawberry jam. Of course, if he had a taste for chicken he could just make a wish and find a whole roasted chicken steaming on a platter waiting for him at the dinner table, or if he was lonely he could wish for company and find Crabbe or Goyle tumbling out of the fireplace in his room. One time, annoyed that he wouldn't stop sniveling, Draco even wished Dobby away, and in a whisper the elf was gone (resurfacing moments later in a duck pond, shivering and gasping for breath).

But then on his sixth birthday, Draco got an even better present: a baby dragon of his very own. One couldn't really play with a dragon; they were impractical for children, breathing fire and being a generally fearsome creature, but Draco's mother had insisted it was very rare, and his friends looked very jealous besides. A child-sized castle with it very own working dungeon was Draco's seventh birthday present, and then on his eighth birthday arrived a flying carpet, procured with some careful bribery from his father.

The wishbox, no longer even in Draco's top twenty of favorite things ever, sat high on a shelf above his bed.

 

_[ ADULT SUPERVISION IS STRONGLY ADVISED FOR ALL CHILDREN UNDER THE AGE OF 12. ]_

 

"Up."

The broomstick quivered at Draco's feet.

"Up." His voice had more urgency now, and Draco hoped, more determination. He shut his eyes, his hand stretched out in front of him, willing the broomstick to rise. Outside, rain was pelting against his bedroom window, the noise a momentary distraction until he concentrated harder and focused his mind. "Up," he repeated, eyes clenched tight. Still, nothing happened and then, a held breath later, something hard smacked him in the palm.

Eyes flying open, Draco's heart leapt at the sight. Yesterday was his eleventh birthday and here was his present, a Comet 260, hovering at his fingertips. He was willing to bet he was the youngest Wizard in England to own such a fine broom, but even better: He had made it fly -- all by himself.

Grinning, he hopped on.

The broomstick dipped under his weight, and for a wild, panicked moment he was hurled sideways across his bedroom, one hand holding onto the broom handle for dear life, other flailing behind.

But it was no use. The broomstick had a will of its own, or more precisely: Draco had no idea what he was doing. It was one thing for a boy to leap over mud puddles in the garden on a toy broom. Quite another to fly indoors on a broom designed to go high speeds. Still, miraculously, Draco had managed to hold on as the broomstick careened even higher, aiming straight for his bedroom wall.

"Nooo!" He flinched, which had the affect of making the broomstick bank left at the last moment, missing the wall, his elbow making painful contact with his bookcase instead. A shower of books fell down to the floor, but he paid no attention, for he was now speeding in the other direction. Teeth gritted, Draco finally managed to pull himself upright, and he banked just in time to avoid crashing into his wardrobe. He made another arc around his bedroom, starting to get the hang of it.

Flying wasn't so hard after all, he decided, and he leaned his body forward just as a Seeker would if he were reaching for the Snitch.

The broom reacted instantly, speeding up, and again Draco was thrown sideways. However, this time there were no miracles. The broom was now careening out of control!

"Help! Stop!" Draco cried, panicking. He tried to pull up on the broom handle, hoping to slow the broom's forward momentum but that only sent him flipping over backwards, and now he was flying upside down and aiming straight for his bedroom window. It was locked tight to keep out the rain.

"Help me," he whimpered, shutting his eyes and certain of eminent death.

Then it occurred to him. He could just let go, so he did.

Draco landed in a crumpled heap, his desk chair upended over him. The broomstick kept flying, crashing through his window. Broken glass rained down on Draco's head.

This had to be the worst day of Draco's life.

His elbow was starting to throb, and Draco didn't even have to look at it to know that it was broken. Leaning on his other arm, he gingerly sat up, and then winced, not from the pain but at the sight of his bedroom. It looked as if a cyclone had hit it, chairs upended, curtains torn of their hangers, books and toys littering the floor. He doubted even his mother's noted benevolence towards her son's behavior would only go so far, and he thanked Merlin that she wasn't home but in London, shopping in Diagon Alley.

"Dobby," he shrieked, touching his forehead and finding blood. "DOOOOBBBBBYYYY."

Almost instantly Dobby appeared, bowing. "Master Draco," he panted. He stood up and gave Draco one, wide-eyed look before crying out, "Dobby is getting Master Lucius."

"No." Draco grabbed Dobby by the arm. "Don't you dare." He shuddered to think what his father would say. And then with a groan, Draco slumped back against the wall, whimpering.

"But Master Draco is hurt," Dobby insisted. "Dobby must."

"Just fix it," Draco hissed, tears gathering in his eyes. "NOW."

Dobby's ears drooped, but he carefully reached for Draco's elbow with his outstretched hand. He touched it gently, his fingertips brushing lightly over the bruised skin, and at once the pain began to subside as the elbow mended together. Draco knew enough about magic to know that house-elves were especially powerful. Dobby didn't even have a wand. Still, it didn't mean Draco ought to be grateful, and the elbow healed, Draco snatched it away, glaring.

But Dobby would not be deterred. Indeed this was his duty: to care for young Draco, his fingers reaching to touch his charge's forehead. Draco flinched, expecting Dobby's fingers to be cold, but they were surprisingly warm, soothing almost, and it occurred to Draco -- as the gash above his left eyebrow magically knitted together -- that Dobby was tending to him like his mother would.

Draco frowned. Dobby was a house-elf. An inferior species.

"Master Draco?"

Dobby had a curious expression on his face. Draco thought he looked almost sorry.

As if Draco Malfoy would need a house-elf's pity.

"Go away," he snarled.

"But Master Draco," Dobby stammered.

"I said, go away," Draco screamed, kicking Dobby away with his feet.

Dobby gave Draco one last sorrowful look before disappearing with a soft _pop_.

Left alone, Draco dropped his head in his hands and began to cry in earnest. It wasn't fair. All he wanted to do was fly his new broom.

Raindrops continued to blow through the broken window, and finally, miserable and sniffling, Draco pulled himself to his feet, his body still aching from his fall. One look through his window told Draco what had happened to his broom. It was impaled to a tree, but Draco couldn't be bothered to care. Dobby would fetch it later (after he cleaned up the mess in Draco's room).

Draco carefully picked his way across his bedroom floor, careful to avoid broken glass when he saw something in his path.

It was a wooden box, ancient and covered with runes. It was now missing a hinge, likely from its fall when Draco collided with his bookshelf.

Draco clutched it to his chest. He wondered if it still worked.

Tucking it under one arm, he crawled on top of his bed, sweeping aside his wizards chess set. (He was meaning to challenge Dobby to a rematch later.) He laid the box down on the bed in front of him and considered it for a moment.

He could wish the day to start over, but he wasn't sure if that would actually work. Then he pondered wishing something horrible to befall Dobby, but he knew that would only get him into trouble like it did the last time. And then the answer came to him so quickly, that he wondered why he didn't think of it in the first place.

He fished a scrap of parchment out his bedside table and wrote his wish down and tucked it inside the box.

There was an explosion of ash inside Draco's fireplace and when the dust had cleared, Pansy Parkinson was standing in his bedroom, smirking.

"Took you long enough," said Draco.

 

_[ JEALOUSY IS NEVER AN EXCUSE TO WISH POORLY ON OTHERS. ]_

 

"Rough day?" said Pansy, stepping over a broken lamp.

Draco moved over to make a space for her on the bed. "Don't want to talk about it."

"Sorry." It was a rare admission, and she looked it as she crawled onto the bed beside him. "I brought something to cheer you up." Pansy pulled something out of her pocket.

Draco perked up. "Really?" he asked. "What?"

"This." It was a copy of yesterday's _Daily Prophet_. She laid it on top of his lap.

Draco picked it up and scanned at the front page.

> _BOY-WHO-LIVED TO ATTEND HOGWARTS._

_"Ministry sources confirm Harry Potter has received his Hogwarts letter and will be attending the Wizarding school this September…_

Draco looked up at Pansy and shrugged. "So?"

"So?" Pansy sounded incredulous. "It's Harry Potter. Don't you want to meet him?"

"I suppose, but the Potters were blood traitors. My father said so."

"He's famous. Draco, just think of it. He probably has loads of money. I bet he lives in a bigger house than yours."

Draco's face darkened. He hadn't considered that anyone might live in a bigger house than his. He crumpled the newspaper into a ball and tossed it onto the floor. "Doesn't matter. I'm not going to Hogwarts anyway."

"What?" Pansy looked at him wide-eyed. "Since when?"

Draco grinned, pleased to have Pansy's full attention again. He puffed out his chest. "I'm going to Durmstrang," he announced.

Pansy scoffed, "No, you're not."

"I am too. My father said."

Pansy still looked incredulous. "Your mother won't let you go to Durmstrang."

"It's not up to my mother, know-it-all." Draco rolled his eyes.

"Okay. Your mother won't _let_ your father send you to Durmstrang," Pansy amended.

Draco deflated. He knew she was right, and he sighed at the unfairness of it all. He didn't want to go to Hogwarts. Hogwarts taught useless subjects like Herbology and Defense Against the Dark Arts. Why anyone would want to defend against the Dark Arts was a mystery to Draco, especially when the Dark Arts were so fascinating.

Feeling defeated once again, he fell silent as Pansy picked the crumpled newspaper off the floor. She seemed taken by a picture on the front page, and had smoothed the crinkles out the paper to stare at it.

Draco looked over her shoulder.

"I think he looks dreamy," she murmured.

Draco scowled. Pansy was staring at a drawing of Potter (because, according to the caption, there was no known photograph available of the boy). It was obvious whoever had made the picture had taken some creative license portraying the boy hero. He looked more like a character from one of Crabbe's comic books than an eleven-year-old young boy. He was tall with broad shoulders and a long mane of black hair, and he had a wide, ready smile and bright, green eyes that winked whenever he caught Draco's attention.

Draco's scowl deepened, his cheeks blushing scarlet. "He looks like a wanker."

 

_[ ALWAYS REMEMBER TO PACK YOUR WISHBOX. ]_

 

"Like I said, a wanker." Draco was scowling again, in what was to become permanent affliction whenever he was around Potter. Still stung from their meeting onboard the train, Draco was already plotting ways to get even, and he glumly looked on as Potter, looking less the hero than an eager stray dog, scrambled off the steps to the train and ran toward the grouping of boats that would ferry them all across the lake.

Crabbe and Goyle grunted in agreement, Goyle still nursing his finger from his confrontation with Weasley's rat. Pansy had already forgotten her infatuation with the Boy Wonder ("He's so short.") and was more concerned about the Sorting.

"I'd die if I get sorted in Gryffindor," she said, eyeing the boats with concern. She gingerly stepped onboard.

"Brave? You?" Goyle snickered as Pansy cried out in alarm, the boat tipping precariously under his added weight.

"C- could happen," Pansy stammered, looking a bit green as she clung to the side of the boat. The lights of Hogwarts were mirrored across the water's surface as the boat began to move, and Pansy relaxed her grip and let out a shaky laugh. "At least nobody's going to sort me into Hufflepuff. I don't think it's possible for me to be nice," she called. She appeared to be enjoying herself at last.

The mood was contagious.

"Or Ravenclaw," said Draco, snickering.

Pansy kicked him but not terribly hard. "Shut up. I'm smart."

They laughed, and then the four of them fell silent as Hogwarts drew closer. Draco found it hard not to be excited, and like the others, he scrambled off the boat when it had reached the shore. The castle beckoned, and he crowded through the front door.

 

_[ ONE MUSTN'T USE THEIR WISHBOX TO PERSUADE IMPLACABLE POTIONS MASTERS. ]_

 

"It's not fair," Draco cried, following Professor Snape down the dungeon corridor. "How come Potter gets to be Seeker--"

Snape opened the door to his office and gave Draco one withering glare before going in. "Mister Malfoy. Do you really mean to lecture me on what is fair?"

Draco darted inside before Snape could have the chance to close the door on him. He wasn't about to give up so easily. Potter was practically a Muggle. It was simply unfair that _he_ got to play Quidditch when Draco had been flying brooms since he was five years old. "Yes," he said hastily. Snape's gaze darkened. "I mean, no." He tried another tack.

Bribery. "My father is a very wealthy man--"

Draco found himself being forcibly ejected from Snape's office. "Wait," he cried. He was not too proud to grovel. "I'll do anything. Just let me play. "

Draco landed in the middle of the corridor floor just as a trio of giggling Hufflepuff girls was walking by. Draco thought he had never been more humiliated.

Snape was still glowering from his office doorway. "Need I remind you that it was your stunt that got Potter onto the Gryffindor team in the first place?" He cocked an eyebrow before slamming the door in Draco's face.

Logic was never really Draco's strong suit. Especially when it was so much easier to lay the blame on someone else. The answer was quite simple: Potter was going to pay.

 

_USING ONE'S WISHBOX TO WIN THE HOUSE CUP IS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN._

 

Professor McGonagall had him by the ear.

"But," Draco cried, "you don't understand. Potter's got a dragon."

"Detention," she bellowed. "Twenty points from Slytherin." She dragged him down the corridor. "You will be serving your detention in the Forbidden Forest with Hagrid. No complaints."

~ * ~

Red eyes haunted Draco's dreams.

Draco took to sleeping with a lighted candle. He kept his bedroom windows locked tight even though it was now summer.

Ever since he saw that thing with Potter, drinking unicorn blood like it was vampire, Draco had nightmares. He saw it in his dreams: a figure, cloaked in black, swooping toward him, eyes scarlet…

Draco's heart pounding in his chest, he stared up at his bedroom ceiling, his bed sheets twisted around his ankles.

"Dobby," he shouted into the dark. He wanted something warm to drink, to take the edge of the night, and yes, he may have wanted the company.

But no house-elf appeared.

"Dobby," he tried again, the fright from his dream diminishing, replaced with confusion. Dobby always came when called. It wasn't only his duty as a house-elf; it was just what he _did_.

Draco slid off the bed and took his candle with him as he padded out of his room. He thought about waking his mother, and indeed the lure of crawling into her bed was a strong one, but Draco reminded himself that he was twelve now. He had already grown considerably taller over the last year; he didn't need to act like a baby.

That settled, he passed her room and walked down the stairs. As he expected, a light was shining from under the library door, and he pushed the door open.

The chair behind his father's desk was empty, and the sound of a snore drew Draco's attention to the sofa across the room where he found his father fast asleep. Draco figured there was probably a proper explanation: the hour was late, his father too weary to climb the stairs, and he already knew, abstractly, that his father rarely slept in his mother's room. Still, Draco found something unnerving about the sight of someone as powerful as his father sound asleep in his robes and socks. But Draco remembered his father had been rather distracted lately, and he wondered if it had anything to do with Dobby's disappearance.

Draco wasn't about wake his father and ask. A proper Slytherin, Draco had a keen sense of self-preservation.

He was going to go back to bed, and he turned to leave the library when something caught his eye.

It was a book, ordinary looking and covered in worn leather, sitting on the center of his father's desk, but even from a distance Draco could tell there was nothing ordinary about it. It was just a feeling he had, a tingle in his spine. As he drew closer, he could see that it was a diary, which only heightened his curiosity.

He reached out his hand, compelled to see what was inside.

"Don't-- Touch it."

Draco froze. Even in the semi-darkness he could read his father's expression from across the room. Draco suddenly felt afraid.

"I -- apologize," he stammered, backing away from the desk. "I couldn't sleep. I--"

It was at that moment that Dobby finally made his return, Apparating into the center of the library. "Master Lucius," he bowed, out of breath. "Master Draco." He tugged on Draco's hand. "You must come. Dobby is taking you to bed."

Dobby seemed insistent, and Draco couldn't let go of the feeling that there was something he was missing. What if his father had got himself into trouble? He could help.

"Fath�"" he started, but he was cut off.

"Good night, Draco," came his father's voice, his face still shrouded in shadow. His tone was final, and Draco knew there would be no further discussion.

Draco let Dobby lead him out of the room, and the library door locked behind them with a click. Draco wondered why his father wouldn't trust him. It wasn't like he was a child.

Frustrated, Draco wheeled around and faced Dobby. "Where were you?" he hissed.

Dobby looked very sorry indeed, his ears drooping, his bulbous eyes starting to water. He made a move to grab an umbrella out of the nearby stand, no doubt intending to harm himself, but Draco stopped him, grabbing his arm. "O-out," was Dobby's stammering answer, as he shrunk under Draco's gaze. "Must not tell where Dobby went. Must not--"

Draco's contempt for Dobby had returned, and it didn't take more than a hard shove to send the house-elf careening backwards into the opposite wall, where he landed, limbs in all directions, blubbering Draco's name.

His face in a sneer, Draco glared down at him. He had no idea what was going on, so he settled for what came easy: petulance. "Next time you come when I call you," he snarled. He gave Dobby a swift kick for his troubles and stormed back up the stairs to his bedroom.

It was there that he took his wishbox off his shelf. He wanted a good night's sleep, one that didn't dwell on red-eyed monsters and questions about his father's odd behavior. Ridding the world of Dobby was purely optional.

_I wish to sleep_, he wrote down and slipped the parchment square into the box.

And he did.

 

_[ WISHING HARM UPON ONE'S RIVALS MAY LEAD TO UNEXPECTED RESULTS. ]_

 

_I wish to scare Potter._

Draco looked down at the parchment square with a satisfied smirk before tucking it into the wishbox.

~ * ~

"I said disarm only," Professor Lockhart shouted from across the Great Hall. He bounded toward Potter.

"My apologies," Draco replied, smirking as Lockhart's _finite incatatum_ ended Draco's cast _Tarantallegra_ and Potter's wildly dancing feet finally came to a rest. Professor Snape was watching from the sidelines, wearing a twisted smile of his own.

He walked over to Draco. "Remember that spell I taught you?"

Draco nodded and tried not to grin. It would be perfect.

"Wands at the ready," cried Lockhart as Snape stepped back.

Draco saw the look of panic on Potter's face. He raised his wand. "Scared, Potter?"

Potter smirked back. "You wish."

 

_[ YOUR WISHBOX WON'T HELP YOU IF YOU THINK YOU'RE GAY. ]_

 

"God, Quidditch is dull." Zabini rolled his eyes as they exited the Malfoy family box. Ireland's victory over Bulgaria had turned the crowd of World Cup revelers into a sea of green. A drunken sea of green.

Draco moved quickly to sidestep a puddle of vomit. "Then why are you here?" he snapped, irritated less from the present company than Bulgaria's surprising loss. Zabini had somehow ceased to be irritating earlier in the summer, right around the time he had shown up on the Malfoy family doorstep in search of a distraction from his latest stepfather's passing. Now Draco just found him bewildering.

Zabini shrugged, looking sideways at Draco, his gaze sending color to Draco's cheeks.

Draco thought it might be Zabini's height, but he just _seemed_ older. And more experienced. Draco changed the subject. "I wonder where my dad went off to."

His father had disappeared before the game ended, taking along Goyle senior. Others had gone too, and Draco felt put out that he didn't get asked along.

"Who cares," replied Zabini, halting. He was eyeing the revelers with obvious distaste. The mood of the campsite had turned rowdier. Firecrackers were shooting off from all directions, many were singing, and Draco thought he heard someone scream.

"Let's go somewhere," Zabini said, tugging on the sleeve of Draco's robes. "Yeah?" He had moved closer, his hand brushing Draco's shoulder.

That relatively simple request took a hell of a long time for Draco to compute, and he realized he was standing slack-jawed when he heard Zabini start to laugh. Draco's ears were burning when he muttered, "What?" -- even though he heard it quite right the first time.

Zabini merely laughed again, which in itself was a rare thing, but Draco thought his teeth looked unusually bright under the night's sky. That Pansy had chosen that moment to burst onto the scene caused Draco no shortage of relief.

Draco wrapped his fingers around Pansy's elbow, leading her away. "Funny. Absolutely hilarious," he muttered, so very pleased that no one could see the color of his cheeks.

~ * ~

Pansy's lips tasted wet and vaguely like sticky pudding. It was after dinner -- after he had spent his meal squeezed next to Viktor Krum and barely eating -- that he had accosted her just down the stairs from the Great Hall.

She didn't look at all displeased with Draco's sudden change in interest in her, a blond curl twirled around her finger. "So we'll be going to Hogsmeade, then?"

Draco blinked. "Sure." But haven't they always gone to Hogsmeade together?

Draco didn't grasp what Pansy had meant until she grabbed him by the hand. He stared at it as she led him toward the common room door. "First you have to take me to The Three Broomsticks, and then Honeydukes…"

~ * ~

Pansy twirled around, her pink dress robes fluttering in her wake. "Well, what do you think?"

She was wearing lipstick a shade too red to be flattering, her blond curls piled and lacquered high atop her head. Draco was all too aware that Zabini was standing behind him, watching them both when he replied, "You look nice."

Pansy's eyebrows twitched, and Draco tried desperately to recall the types of compliments his father always paid to his mother. "Lovely. You look lovely."

"Really?" Pansy's face split into a wide smile.

~ * ~

The Great Hall was transformed into a wonderland of ice and snow. Couples were swaying to the music, breaking apart whenever McGonagall and Snape's watchful eyes turned in their direction, and outside, Draco found himself pressed against a cold castle wall.

"What're you doing?" he managed to gasp, holding his hands up too late to stop Zabini's forward trajectory.

"Took you long enough," was Zabini's gruff reply.

Somewhere inside Pansy was still waiting near the punch bowl while her boyfriend was being kissed like the world might end tomorrow. If that may seem like an exaggeration, it was only because Draco was woefully inexperienced in that regard, a few hasty kisses with Pansy aside. Finally, they broke apart, Draco still clutching the wool collar of Zabini's coat. "What�"" he gasped, heart thudding in his chest, "was that for?"

Zabini smirked, still a half a head taller. "Had a hunch."

Draco's mouth went dry, his hands dropping to his sides. "What that supposed to be a joke?"

Zabini grinned, fingering the collar of Draco's shirt. "What do you think?"

Draco thought that he hated it when someone answered a question with another question. It was so very Slytherin. He leaned forward, wanting to kiss Zabini some more when Zabini abruptly backed away.

Draco soon saw why. Pansy was standing a few steps away. He wondered how much she had seen.

"Where have you been?" she cried, fists balled at her sides as Zabini muttered an apology and made a hasty retreat.

Draco was caught between chasing after Zabini and trying to placate Pansy. He decided to do neither. "Nowhere," he retorted harshly, walking off in the other direction, ignoring Pansy's tears.

Besides, Draco felt rather like crying himself.

 

_[ YOUR WISHBOX WILL NOT DO YOUR HOMEWORK. ]_

 

"Mister Malfoy."

Draco looked up and shrank under the weight of Snape's glare. "Yes, Professor?"

"You do know what a three-foot-long essay looks like?" Snape held up a roll of parchment, Draco's homework, for the entire class to see.

There was a titter of laughter from the Gryffindor side of the classroom. Draco scowled darkly before replying, "Yes."

"Then can you explain to me why even Weasley managed to write more about the medicinal properties of bubotubor spores than you?"

Draco shifted in his seat, the Inquisitor Squad badge pinned to his robes catching in the light. "No."

"I expect better of you," Snape said, low as he walked past.

 

_[ YOU SHOULD NOT USE YOUR WISHBOX TO WOE YOUR GIRLFRIEND. ]_

 

"You're hurt."

Draco was letting Pansy attend to his wounds, her handkerchief carefully blotting the blood on his face. He attempted a smile, which hurt like hell. "You should see the other guy."

"Really?" Pansy's eyes lit up.

Merlin, she was so easy. Draco sometimes felt guilty.

Millicent Bulstrode burst into the common room. Like Draco she was still dressed in her Slytherin Quidditch uniform. "Potter's suspended. Umbridge did the deed in McGonagall's office five minutes ago."

"See?" Draco said to Pansy.

She looked like she might combust with glee. "Oh, Draco."

Alone, in the opposite corner, Zabini rolled his eyes.

 

_[ YOU MUST NOT USE YOUR WISHBOX FOR REVENGE. ]_

 

"You're dead, Potter."

It wasn't just that Draco was angry. He felt like his whole world was crashing down around him. He had spent the last two days in a daze, and he had begged his mother via Floo to let him come home, but she had refused.

It was just by luck that he had found Potter alone in the Entrance Hall, unprotected.

"You're going to pay," Draco warned, his voice low. "I'm going to make you pay for what you've done to my father."

"Well, I'm terrified now," Potter replied, sarcastic.

Draco thought he ought to be.

~*~

The wishbox was back where it belonged, on Draco's bedside table. Draco sat on the edge of his bed, a gentle breeze blowing in through his open window, ruffling his hair.

It was after midnight, the sprawling Manor empty except for his mother locked behind her bedroom door. Draco never hated being alone more.

He picked up a square of parchment and contemplated it, unsure how to articulate what he wanted into simple words.

He wanted to make things right again, so his mother would stop crying. He wanted to be a man just like his father. But most of all, he was sick of feeling so powerless and so very young.

_But grown men don't play with toys,_ a voice chided inside his head as he slipped his wish into the box. He recited the spell and lay down atop his bed to wait.

He didn't have to wait for long. The light in his room was dim -- there were only a few candles burning -- but his presence was as unmistakable as the two red eyes glowing at the foot of Draco's bed.

Draco scrambled off the bed and knelt down, one knee touching the ground. "My Lord."

A hand, dry and cold, touched Draco's cheek where it lingered, brushing away the tears that were falling from Draco's eyes.

"You wish to serve?"

Draco nodded, and realizing he should speak, he blurted, "I'll do anything. Anything to get my father back."

"Of course."

Draco looked up at the Dark Lord's face, relief flooding though him. It was more than he could have possibly have wished for. "You will help me get my father out of Azkaban?"

"Of course, he is of great value to me." Voldemort's hand lifted Draco's chin. "As are you, Draco. You are my future."

"I'm�"I'm honored." Draco would have thought he'd be terrified, but he wasn't. He wanted this more than anything.

Draco pulled up the sleeve of his shirt and held out his arm. He didn't flinch when Voldemort pressed his wand to it.

~*~

Draco's mother wasn't so calm. "No. I won't let this happen." Frantic, she grabbed Draco by the shoulders, pulling him to her, the fabric of his robes bunched in her fists. "Your father did not want this."

His mother was a tall woman in her own right; nevertheless Draco was now taller, and he easily pushed her away. She let out a wail and crumpled to the floor in a heap, her long hair hanging like a curtain around her face. "You're wrong. Father believed in me," he told her.

"Cissy, you're embarrassing yourself," said Bellatrix, watching. She looked darkly amused by her sister's breakdown. "You knew this day would come."

It might have been the sanest thing Bellatrix ever said, and her words appeared to give Narcissa some resolve. She looked up at her son. "What is he making you do?"

Draco adjusted the sleeve of his shirt, the skin of his forearm still tender and raw. "Nothing I can't handle."

 

_[ SOMETIMES A WISHBOX CAN WORK IN MYSTERIOUS WAYS. ]_

 

He was handling it.

"You're not suiting up?"

The disappointment in Pansy's voice was obvious. The Slytherin team was short one player already. He already got an earful from Theodore Nott. It's not like he needed to hear it from her too.

"I'm not feeling well," he snapped back. He was sitting on top his bed, staring at the opposite wall. The dormitory was otherwise empty, the game due to start in a half hour.

"Really?" It was apparent that she didn't believe him.

"Really," he retorted icily. He rolled his eyes, and that was when he noticed for the first time Pansy had an old _Potter Stinks_ badge pinned to her Slytherin scarf. For some reason, he found that darkly amusing.

"What?" said Pansy when he began to laugh.

"Nothing," he said, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. He got to his feet, and laying both hands on her shoulders, he urged her around so that she was facing the dormitory door. "Pansy, go to the game."

"But �" If you let me help�""

"I'm fine," said Draco, cutting her off.

~*~

He was handling it.

"Where are you going?" Zabini's voice was low. The corridor was empty, but it still was after curfew.

Draco ignored him and kept walking.

Zabini finally caught up to him on the landing between the fifth and six floors, accosting him next to a painting of a young woman. She shrieked and covered her eyes.

For a blissful moment Draco allowed himself to be ravaged, Zabini's hand roaming freely down the front of his robes, but reality insisted. Draco had a task. He could not afford to waste time.

He steeled himself and sent Zabini stumbling backwards. "Don't touch me," he snarled.

Zabini recovered his footing easily. "Give it up. Everyone knows you're a poof."

Draco thought that was hardly the point. He turned toward the stairs, going up, but Zabini stopped him again, this time grabbing him by the arm.

Draco glared down at him. "If you don't get your fucking hand off me, I'll hex your dick off." Draco meant it and Zabini wisely dropped his hand.

"Pansy finally figured out how to spread her legs, huh?"

Draco knew Zabini was only trying to get a rise out of him, but he didn't have the energy to do anything about it. "Just leave her out of it." He turned to go again.

"Right," Zabini called after him. "You look like shit. You know that?"

Draco snorted, stopping halfway up the stairs. "I'm touched you care."

"Pansy's at her wit's end."

"And I told you to leave her out of it."

"Fine," snapped Zabini, looking anything but. Draco knew Zabini avoided violent contact as a rule, but he looked very much like he wanted to slug Draco, his fists clenched at his sides.

Draco was at once grateful for the space that was between them. "Go back to bed," he called.

"You're an idiot," Zabini retorted.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Like I said. I'm touched you care."

Zabini said nothing more. They were both Slytherins. There was no need to get maudlin. And besides, Draco knew Zabini _wasn't_ an idiot. He wouldn't get in the way.

"Go away. I can handle it," Draco said.

~*~

The bathroom door burst open, hitting the wall with a bang, and inside Draco sank down onto the cold tile floor.

He wasn't handling it.

The sobs came easier now. It might have been after he nearly killed Weasley that Draco stopped feeling ashamed of his tears, but Draco tried not to dwell on that for very long.

A soft sound above him told Draco he was not alone, and for once he was grateful for the intrusion.

"Don't," he heard someone say, and he looked up to see a ghost floating down beside him. She stared at him through a pair of thick glass lenses. "Don't cry."

Draco snorted. "Who're you?"

"Myrtle."

Myrtle was ugly, had the sort of drab hair that would have given Pansy fits and wore thick, Potter-esque glasses. She looked like no one he'd ever associate with in real life. Her voice grated. She was a ghost.

But he told her everything: his impossible task, the anguish he caused his mother, the isolation he felt from his friends, his feelings of failure. The words spilled from his mouth, and when he had finally finished the ghostly girl sniffled, her own eyes brimming with tears.

"Will you come visit me again?"

Draco knew he had no business making promises to anyone.

"Okay," he said.

 

[ _A WISHBOX CAN SOMETIMES MALFUNCTION. THE MANUFACTURER BEARS NO RESPONSIBILITY SHOULD THIS OCCUR, AS THIS CAN SIMPLY BE CONSTRUED AS BAD LUCK. OUR APOLOGIES._ ]

 

Red eyes haunted his dreams.

Terrified, Draco slipped out of his dormitory and padded through the sleeping castle.

"Why am I doing wrong?"

It was a simple question, plainly asked, but the vanishing cabinet provided no answers. It merely stood there, broken and dusty, in the Great Room of Hidden Things.

"FUCK!" Draco screamed, and after taking several gulping breaths of air, he tried again, quieter, "Why am I doing wrong? Why won't you work? Why? Why? I've tried everything--"

He was shouting again. Draco wiped the tears from his eyes and began to laugh. All else had failed; he supposed trying to reason with a bloody piece of furniture was the best he could do.

~*~

He was being watched.

Potter was about as stealthy as an overgrown sheepdog. Draco had known Potter had been trailing him for weeks now.

What puzzled Draco was why he didn't actually mind.

"Would you save me, Potter?" Draco asked during one of his madder moments, delirious from lack of sleep, the Dark Mark on his arm turned red and raw. "Like you save everyone else. Would you?"

Once again, the vanishing cabinet didn't answer.

~*~

Draco's whole body was shaking. "I can't do it. ... I can't. ... It won't work… and unless I do it soon ... he says he'll kill me."

He looked up and saw his tear-streaked face in the cracked mirror. And then another face appeared behind him, colored white with shock.

Draco spun around.

~*~

Draco barely remembered being carried into the infirmary, Snape's frantic instructions to Madam Pomphrey were but a whisper in Draco's ears, but the hate Draco saw in Potter's eyes he could recall vividly, and days later when he was well enough to go back to his dormitory, Draco took a detour instead.

He stood before the vanishing cabinet newly resolute. "This time you're going to work."

 

_[ A WISHBOX MAY NOT GRANT THE IMPOSSIBLE. ]_

 

Draco couldn't stop shaking.

"Well, then, you must get on and do it, my dear boy," Dumbledore said to him even as his body was slumping lower against the ramparts of the tower.

Then, bizarrely, the old man began to smile.

"Draco, you are not a killer."

"How do you know?" Draco cried.

 

_[ A WISHBOX MAY CARRY YOU HOME. ]_

 

Draco was being crushed into his mother's chest. He couldn't breathe.

"Well? Did he do it?" It was Bellatrix, sounding frantic.

"Hush, Bella." If possible, Narcissa's grip on Draco tightened. "Severus?"

Sounding out of breath, Draco heard Snape respond, "It is done."

Narcissa's relief was palpable, and she finally loosened her hold. "Thank you, Severus." She drew back, both hands clutching the sides of Draco face, and looked him over.

He could see how worried she must have been, her eyes red rimmed, her forehead lined. Guilt weighted on Draco's shoulders. "I--I'm sorry."

"No." Narcissa shook her head. "You're safe. You're home safe."

 

_[ A WISHBOX WILL NOT TURN YOU INTO SOMETHING YOU ARE NOT. ]_

 

Draco could barely see the outline of the old man in the gloom of the dungeon room. "Get up," he barked. He pointed his wand.

The man, Draco remembered meeting under happier circumstances as a boy shopping for his wand, shifted where he was lying on the floor, but did not rise. "Young man �"" Ollivander started to say.

"Shut up," Draco shouted back, his wand shaking. "Get off the floor."

"But surely you understand that I'm too weak to stand." The man's voice was reasonable, which sounded all the more maddening to Draco's ears.

Draco wiped the sweat from his forehead, starting to feel ill. "Don't make me hurt you," he warned.

"But you mean to hurt me. That's why you're here."

He, of course, was right. Draco's mouth filled with the taste of his own vomit. He had no stomach for this sort of thing, and he knew all too well what happened to spineless Death Eaters who couldn't do their duty.

"Do you remember when you came into my shop to buy your wand?" Ollivander asked, after waiting patiently for Draco to compose himself and clean the sick off his shoes.

"Of course. Why wouldn't I?" Attuned to the dark now, Draco could make out the features of Ollivander's face, the old man's silvery eyes glassy as they stared back at Draco.

"I remember as well. Hawthorn and unicorn hair." The wandmaker turned his head to face the opposite wall. "I thought then that you might have taken another path."

"What?" rasped Draco. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Ollivander didn't answer, and Draco steadied the grip on his wand.

"It doesn't matter. I have no choice." Clenching his eyes shut, he aimed his wand. _"Crucio."_

~*~

"Are you all right?"

"What?" Draco said, staring into Looney Lovegood's wide saucer eyes. He had a tray of food in his hands, dinner for Malfoy Manor's newest prisoner. He shoved it into her hands. "I'm fine."

"If you mean to torture me, it's all right. I'll try not to cry."

Draco blanched. "I'm not-- I mean I don't--" He stopped himself before he could say anything more.

Lovegood was still wearing her Ravenclaw uniform from when she was snatched off the train, the skirt torn at the hem. "But it would be better if you let me go."

"I can't do that," Draco snapped back.

"No. I didn't expect you to."

He had to ask, "What about Potter? Is he going to save you now?"

"No. I expect he has more important things to do." Lovegood didn't appear to be overly bothered by this, however. "Don't worry. I'll be all right. Mr. Ollivander has been lovely company." She indicated the frail man pitifully moaning on the floor behind her.

Draco frowned. "I'm not worried."

 

_[ ALL SALES ARE FINAL. MANAGEMENT REGRETS ANY INCONVENIENCE THAT MIGHT CAUSE. ]_

 

"And ze problem ees?" asked Monsieur Petit in heavily accented English. He looked perplexed as Draco set the wishbox down on the counter of Petit's shop.

"Ze problem is that the wishbox is broken," Draco snapped back. "Fix it."

The shopkeeper made a face and picked the wishbox off the counter to give it closer inspection, Draco watching impatiently. It had taken a considerable amount of effort and risk for him to travel to Paris, but he was desperate. International Floo travel was expensive, not that he didn't have funds, but there was also the matter of buying the border agents' silence and arranging for Crabbe and Goyle to cover for him back at school. He didn't wish to think what would happen if word got back to Headmaster Snape or the Dark Lord that he had left the country. He would lucky to live to see the end of the day.

"And why do you think ze box ess broken?" Monsieur Petit asked, still inspecting the box. He poked at it with his wand and frowned.

Draco's hand balled into a fist. "It doesn't work anymore. Everything's gone wrong. No matter what I wish for everything just gets worse!"

The shopkeeper sighed, setting the wishbox back on the counter. "Perhaps eet ess because you are not wishing hard enough."

"I _am_ wishing hard enough," Draco shouted back, his fist pounding on the counter.

The shopkeeper shook his head. "Zee, a wishbox ees a mysterious thing. Eet works een mysterious ways. I told your mother zo when she purchased it. One can never know." He pushed the wishbox toward Draco. "Ze wishbox ees not broken. Non."

 

_[ A WISHBOX CANNOT CHANGE THE PAST. ]_

 

Draco stormed back into his dormitory room, drew the wishbox out of his robe pocket and threw it into the bottom of his trunk. The much-abused box splintered in half, rendering it useless, which Draco thought was just _perfect_. He kicked the trunk once and collapsed on top of his bed, his head in his hands.

"How was your trip?"

Draco dropped his hands from his eyes and looked across the dormitory. Zabini was sprawled atop his bed, paging through a magazine. "What trip?" Draco asked.

Zabini turned another page. "You need to pay Crabbe and Goyle more," he said without looking up.

Draco blanched.

"Don't worry. I covered for you," and he added, teasing, "You're an idiot but a fetching one."

Zabini's magazine had dropped a fraction, and Draco could see from his expression that he was smiling. Draco knew better than to get his hopes up, but couldn't help asking, "Does this mean we're--" Zabini had all but ignored him since their confrontation sixth year.

"No." Zabini put down his magazine. "I told you. Death Eaters are bad for my health and well being."

"I can't help that now," Draco cried, exasperated. "It's too late."

"I know." Zabini picked up his magazine again. "Too bad."

 

_[ YOU MAY WISH FOR A HERO. ]_

 

The Dark Lord was angry. The Mark on Draco's arm burned. He was sure his father felt it too. Draco caught him tugging on the sleeve of his robes.

"It will be over soon," Lucius assured him. They were sitting side by side in the drawing room, a large fire roaring in the hearth in front of them. Still, Draco felt a chill deep in his bones that no fire or being under his parents' roof could take away.

Lucius lowered his voice. "We will find a way to get back in the Dark Lord's favor. We will reclaim our rightful place by his side."

"How? How will we reclaim our place?" demanded Draco, flinching from another stab of pain.

 

"Trust me," said Lucius, wincing.

Draco looked away. He no longer wanted to be by the Dark Lord's side.

There was a commotion in the hallway.

"Draco," he heard his mother call. "Come here. Do you know this boy?"

And that's how Draco came face to face with the one person he hadn't dared to wish for.

 

_[ OF COURSE, YOU MAY ALWAYS WISH FOR A BRIGHTER FUTURE. ]_

 

"Why didn't you identify me?" asked Potter, looking genuinely curious as he added more sugar to his coffee. "I was so sure you would."

Draco's eyes dropped down to his own coffee cup. He had run into Potter in the Ministry lobby. It had been years. He could have just said his polite regards and gone on his way, but on a lark he had decided to invite Potter to get a cup of coffee. The Ministry canteen was just down the stairs. He really didn't expect Potter to accept.

Draco reached for a sugar and fumbled with it as he tore open the paper wrapper. "I was … happy to see you." His spoon was stirring a cyclone inside his cup.

Potter laughed. "You didn't _look_ very happy."

A smile threatened on Draco's face. "No, I wasn't." He took a sip of coffee and nearly spit it back into his cup. He had added way too much sugar. "I know it doesn't make sense…" He trailed off, embarrassed. He actually thought very little about the war. It made getting on with his life a whole hell of a lot easier. "That's all over with, anyway." He picked up another packet of sugar and dumped it into his cup.

Potter looked thoughtful. "Good thing."

Draco nodded, still stirring his coffee.

"Why did you invite me to coffee?"

Draco narrowed his eyes. "Why so many questions, Potter?"

"It's my job."

Right. Potter was some big shot Auror now. He knew this was a mistake. Potter probably thought Draco was trying to curry favor or pay a bribe. "I suppose you should be running along. You know how people talk."

"Oi. I'm not done with my coffee yet." Potter looked offended, and then a predatory-looking grin spread across his face. Draco figured it was some sort of Auror intimidation trick to get Draco to spill his dark secrets. "Did you know Blaise Zabini works in my office?" Potter asked, leaning across the table.

Draco smirked. "Yes, I did know that." Zabini still wouldn't sleep with him, but they had kept in touch.

"If you get him drunk he'll spill all his secrets."

Draco took a moment to parse the idea of Potter and Zabini drinking together. "Really?"

Potter gestured toward him with his coffee cup. "He has stories about you."

The blood started to drain from Draco's face, and then he gaped. "Wait. Did you just wink at me?"

"Do you always put so much sugar in your coffee?"

"Do you always ask so many questions?"

Potter grinned at him. "This is fun. We should do this again."


End file.
